


Displaced Cowboy

by marukun



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Yakuza, Angst, Deadlock Gang, Eventual Smut, M/M, Making it up As I Go Along, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pent up emotional trauma, Rough Sex, Smartass Hanzo, Smartmouth Jesse, Switch Hanzo Shimada, Switch Jesse McCree, To Be Continued, Top Jesse McCree, Yakuza, Yakuza Hanzo Shimada, bodyguard au?, mostly - Freeform, neither of them know how to love (yet), oh boy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-03-19
Packaged: 2019-02-27 07:08:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13243113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marukun/pseuds/marukun
Summary: In this AU, Overwatch's Swiss headquarters explosion took place over a year ago. With the death of both his Commander Reyes and Commander Morrison, Jesse dismantled any ties to Overwatch/Blackwatch. Feeling empty, he eventually was recruited back into Deadlock where their objective is to join forces with the Shimada's in hopes of more power. Their first day in Hanamura goes horribly wrong and Jesse is left to clean up the mess, dealing with yet another loss in his life. Add that to the abrasiveness of the Shimadas, how will this transaction go? Will he abandon his mission all together or find purpose?





	1. Welcome to Hanamura

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I've never submitted anything before so I'm 100% open to any comments. Honestly this scenario has been in my head for weeks and I had an itch to transfer it into words. If it gets any sort of attention/praise I'll most likely continue writing it. I have a whole plot already planned out, if you so wish to read it. Please enjoy! Any kudos/comments are welcome with open arms. ♥

“Do you understand, ingrate?” McCree simply rolled his eyes, nodding in accordance to the orders laid out before him. If all goes to plan, this could be a game changer for the Deadlock gang. They’d gain territory, influence, and international recognition. Deadlock was a powerful gang; has been for years, and they’ve only grown stronger. The Shimada's were just as powerful, if not more. Twice the members, twice the power, twice the shipments of guns and illegal contraband. All things Deadlock craved. The Shimada’s weren’t exactly friendly with Overwatch either, considering Genji Shimada abandoned the clan to join their ranks after a failed assassination from Hanzo Shimada; the heir and current leader of the syndicate. 

“They’ve taken a key interest in us and our hatred for Overwatch. They’d be willing to help us with dismantling Overwatch and expanding our current activities. You’re to go to Hanamura and speak with Hanzo and his clansmen; gain their trust. We need this. Heh, maybe we could take them over as well.. Tryna kill yer own brother, kinda person is that?”

McCree shifted uncomfortably in his seat across from the man's desk. Overwatch left a painful scar, though no matter how deep. Hearing the idea of dismantling Overwatch made his stomach churn. 

“You left them for a reason, did you not? I was kind enough to take you back after betraying us once. Your sharpshooting skills were the only reason I even considered sparing your traitorous ass.” 

The man rose from his desk opposite of where McCree sat, menacingly walking towards the cowboy and coming to a halt when he’d stood behind him. The man silently unsheathed a pocket knife, hovering it just above his carotid artery. Before he could react, the man grabbed a fistful of hair and leaned down to speak into his ear. 

“Don’t ya fuck this up. Death will be the most pleasant thing in store for you if you do. Your flight leaves in an hour. Get out.”

McCree quickly arose, mumbling obscenities under his breath as he made his way out of the office. Having slammed the door, he mischievously gave a middle finger in that direction. “Goddamn pig fucke--...” He sighed and trailed off, choosing to save his energy for the 14+ hour plane ride awaiting him. He made his way to his scrawny excuse for a room, kicking various magazines and beer bottles out of the way to clear a path for him to walk. He dug into his drawer, grabbing miscellaneous items to pack. A dilapidated polaroid of McCree, Genji and Reyes sat in the pile. He gave a lamenting glare toward the photograph, quickly swallowing his thoughts and stuffing the plastic memory into his suitcase. 

Dealing with a major crime syndicate demanded tuxes and fancy suits to become part of his uniform in order to look presentable. No organization of the Shimada’s stature would partner with Deadlock if their men showed up wearing an unbuttoned shirt that hinted of cheap booze, of course not neglecting the infamous ketchup stain. McCree changed into a very plain, but flattering black and white suit. With his trusty pacemaker holstered in his pants, he set off to the airport. 

~~~

McCree swirled his whiskey glass in hand, taking in the sights of Hanamura from his hotel window. It was a beautiful sight as the streets below were decorated in lavish and brightly lit LEDs of white, green and red to celebrate the upcoming Christmas holiday. A light layer of snow covered the ground as children attempted to make snowballs, launching them at unsuspecting parents. It was peaceful.. Despite the heinous activities taking place in the shadows. Terf wars took place every other week; each gang trying to gain control of different areas within the city. Although the Shimada’s were no doubt the strongest, it was being threatened. Uprisings against them started long ago and have only gained momentum. Out of spite, McCree tuned on his TV and switched to the news (while fumbling with the remote to configure English subtitles.) to unsurprisingly interrupt a report detailing how gang-related deaths have risen 21% in the past seven months. 

“..Violence between the Shimada clan and the Ukitake clan have only escalated as police officers are at a standstill concerning the..” 

The reporters voice abruptly came to a halt as McCree muted the television, switching his attention to footsteps nearing his hotel door. He lowered his hand to the holstered weapon on his waist before letting out a sigh of relief as a drunken but familiar voice spoke through the door. 

“McCree.. Come *hiccup* join us at the bar.. Got sum purdy ladies.. *hiccup*”

“None of ‘em are interested in ya, you fat shit.” McCree gathered his hat and sat his drink down, adjusting his suit as he answered the door. If he was going to work closely with a murderous, heartless crime lord in three days he’d might as well get in a few drinks in beforehand. 

“Diego, you good to make it back? I ain’t carryin’ yer ass back to your room if ya pass out.”  
“It’s only..” he paused, making seemingly hard calculations based on his expression. “.. a five-minute walk, it’s basically across the street from the hotel.” 

McCree put distance between the two of them to avoid soiling his suit with potential vomit being spewed from his stumbling compadre. Diego was one of his only friends in Deadlock considering most of the men were egomaniacal power-hungry jackasses. Everyone wanted to get to the top. Diego was recruited in the same way McCree was, mostly against his will with a death sentence being your only other option. He was a good man, despite the gang’s usual vendetta. He did what he had to. Goddamn idiot when he drank, though. A common trait of the gang members. Jesse included.  


~~~

Glowing neon signs flashing with images of sake and foreign Japanese symbols filled McCree's vision as they strolled down the alleyway, one bar after another on either side of them, the smell of alcohol beginning to hit his nostrils. Booming music vibrated through the streets and the walls along with lively, but mostly friendly conversation. Shadowy figures lurked in a crowd of men near their destination, glancing towards McCree and his drunken friend suspiciously but went ultimately ignored as greetings from other Deadlock members roared into his ears as they approached their bar of the night. 

Diego pat McCree on the back and went about seeking his group of friends to sit with as McCree strolled towards the bar, ordering a neat whiskey and venturing for a secluded table to rest at. The shadowy figures from before gave him a sense of anxiety. They were dressed way too fancily for a night out. It was too dark to make out any distinguishable gang-related tattoos, but it’s possible. The arrival of an American gang on its own is enough to gain an admirable amount of attention, but the intention to form ties with the Shimada clan draws attention from their rivals as well. Expansion of the Shimada’s would be detrimental to other gangs, mainly the Ukitake’s mission to obliterate them from existence. After the failed assassination attempt on Genji, many clans thought Hanzo was weak for not being able to kill his traitorous brother on his own and revoked their support for the Shimada's. Within a year, their territories depleted, making them an easy target to overtake. 

The piercing sound of shattering glass and frenzied screams broke his chain of thought, causing him to spring up from his seat and draw his weapon only to find a gloomy aftermath as he turned to face the patrons. Pools of blood and lifeless bodies littered the floor, accompanied by groaning cries for help. McCree searched for his crew in the midst of the dozen bodies, spotting Diego facedown on the floor not appearing to be moving. His heart was racing, the adrenaline pumping through his veins. “Hang in there, buddy.. I’m comin’..” He cautiously went to approach his fallen comrade, stopped midway by more bullets being shot into the bar, this time one finding purchase in his abdomen. As he fell to the floor, tires screeched as a black van hauled off into the distance. Laying on the floor, he gripped his wound in an attempt to slow the bleeding. 

With every second that passed, McCree’s vision steadily got hazier. Even with the pressure he’s applying he was almost positive a major organ was hit and the bleeding was sure to kill him within the next few minutes. He let his body completely sag onto the floor as broken memories of his life blurred his brain. A blurred image of Reyes appeared in front of him, nearly in reach, calling out to McCree. He started mumbling incoherent words towards the ghost of Reyes until footsteps knocked him out of his delusion. 

Too injured to reach for his gun and even attempt to fight back, he simply muttered the phrase “Fuck you.” towards the men. They were in a group of three, two of them were signaled to check out the damage while the remainder approached McCree’s near corpse-like body. A few pained moments passed before the brown-haired man glanced at his two colleagues. “Status?” His voice was smooth but assertive. He was someone important. McCree tried to focus on his surroundings but couldn’t escape the static seeping into his ears as his time was quickly evaporating. 

“Four of the five Deadlock members are dead. At least a dozen citizens.” The men responded, causing the mysterious figure to sign and draw closer to McCree and squat down next to him. 

“Whom might you be, cowboy?” McCree grunted between breaths, trying to stay awake. They weren’t trying to kill him, yet, but small details weren’t on his mind as he slipped in and out of consciousness.

“Like I said.. Fuck you and yer men.” He heard a clear scoff from the man as he leaned in to reach into McCree’s pockets, fishing out his wallet and fumbling for an ID. 

“Jesse McCree. I’m Hanzo Shimada. Your first night here and your men are gunned down and you survive. Pathetic.” 

A grumble grew in McCree’s throat as the man stayed at a fairly close distance to the cowboy, noting the pooled blood outlining his body and painful grunts escaping the man's lips. “Survive for now, at least. You're still of use.” 

With enough life in him to manage small movement, he shifted his head towards the man and noticed his profound facial features. Dark almond eyes encompassed by slick brown ponytailed hair with streaks of grey flowing through it, accompanying facial hair with a broad bodily figure. The elegant dark navy suit wrapped around his muscles deliciously. Sure as hell not the worst last thing to see before death, that’s for sure.

A weak smirk formed upon McCree’s face. A strained “Well hello there, doll face.” was the last thing he managed to say before the mans boot pummeled his face, knocking him clean out. Hanzo rolled his eyes and waved at his men to pick up the body and place it in their vehicle. 

“Take him to my home and accumulate necessary medical supplies to keep him alive. Now.” 

With the order, the men secured McCree into the car seat and ordered the driver to their destination.


	2. The Dragons Den

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO sorry about the belated upload time. Thank you for all the wonderful comments and kudos. I know this chapter is short, the rest won't be since I feel that's less enjoyable as a reader. I wanted to publish SOMETHING, at least, to sate the wonderful people that've bookmarked and commented on this. Leaving this chapter on a cliffhanger type note so I can really bulk up in the third chapter and deliver a nice angst and (maybe) smut chapter with a lot of content, plot and juiciness. ENJOY ! ! 
> 
> (Question for the readers. Do you care if I use "McCree" and "Jesse" interchangeably? Or do you prefer one name throughout? If so, which one?)

An assortment of colors and shapes flooded McCree's vision as he attempted to open his heavy eyes to a warm hum resonated near him. Before he could even fully open his eyes, the pain from his injuries rose into an almost unbearable state. He could feel the bullet wound move as he breathed. He didn't die and this wasn't his first time getting shot. Never gets easier, though. He attempted to observe his surroundings to get a better idea of where he was. The room was increasingly white with accents of red complementing the walls. The architecture of the room was of Japanese descent as far as Jesse could gather, intricate paintings of dragons and other mythical Japanese folklore lined a portion of the wall space. The pain continued to radiate throughout his body and he realized now wasn't the time to contemplate the decor. 

As his vision adjusted to the bright contrasts of the walls, the humming growing closer in distance. It was a woman from the pitch of it. Jesse strained to move his arm to towards his gun holster, only discovering it to be missing. The pain spiked, again, as soon as he strained himself and a defeated grunt escaped his throat as his head fell back onto the pillow. 

"No gun for you young man. This is a respectable home. Please, keep still to avoid reopening your stitches. I’ve given strict instructions to assure your survival." 

“ **Respectable**?” A tsk followed his thought while the woman continued her routine.

She leaned over and placed a wet rag on Jesse's forehead, wiping up some remaining dried dirt and blood. She was an elderly woman with short white hair, a pair of ridiculously large glasses covering half her wrinkled face. Though, compared to the brute assholes he met earlier, she was a welcome change. Actually, the details of the accident started to come back into memory. A sense of dread grasped at him. What was it? Four Deadlock members dead? Shit. Diego was dead too. McCree was the only survivor of his unit. A heaviness came upon his chest, trying to fend the deathly images that increasingly invaded his mind. He needed to get to the bottom of this. Was it a hit from a rival gang? Where is Hanzo? 

"Ma'am, thank ya, but where the fuck am I? Where is Mr. Shimada?" She elder woman made a slight gasp, flinging the cloth at his face to land a decent smack. ''Language young man! Respect your elders." She huffed and strolled towards the door, giving him a dismissive wave. "I will inform the guards you’re awake. Stay here." As she left the room McCree rubbed his face trying to soften the sting from the whip of the rag. A sigh escaped him yet again as he tried to form an understanding of what kinda fucked-up situation he’d gotten himself into. A symbol that hung on the wall caught his eye this time, reminiscent of something he’d seen somewhere. He stared hard until a sharp breath took to his chest, finally remembering its origin. He’d seen it on the TV broadcast covering the Shimada clan and during a myriad of debriefings. It was the clans insignia, which sported a bloody red color. A bit ironic considering their past. 

Against the elders orders McCree slowly but surely pushed himself up by his elbows, carefully positioning his body to rest at the edge of the bed. He cracked his knuckles and peeked down to his abdomen, noting his then-elegant suit was replaced with a clean white hospital gown. He'd much rather deal with the exposure of his ass through the thin material than his previous clothing soaked with innocent civilians blood. He shook off the thought, tracing a finger over the wrapping on his wound. Another scar to add to the collection, he thought. The door swung open, the elderly woman entering first on account of one of them holding the door open for her, two bodyguards following suit after. Even members of bloodthirsty Shimada’s had manners. It was almost comforting. Until they spoke. 

“Move. Master Shimada doesn’t like waiting.” They walked over and stood on either side of him, hoisting his arms over their shoulders and bringing him to his legs. The elder woman looked almost.. Worried at their rough behavior. Not an expression McCree was accustomed to being shown. He gave her a comforting nod and tried to keep up with the guards pace as they shuffled him out of the room. They moved through various halls lined with historical katanas and other memorabilia with a distant water fountain flowing in the distance, perhaps in the vast garden that could be seen through some of the scarce windows. It could almost be beautiful if you forget what home he was being paraded through like a dog. They finally came to a stop at a vast set of doors which accompanied another set of armed clansmen. The man under his left shoulder stuck his hand out to the adjacent guard, an audible grunt coming from McCree as he heard the familiar clank of handcuffs land in his hand. Removing himself from McCree's side, he yanked both of the bruised arms behind the cowboys back, _tightly_ latching them shut. A harsh shove was delivered from behind to urge McCree to hurry up the stairs. A guard opened the door, allowing him to step inside the darkly lit room. Another shove to get him completely into the room. Asshole.

He could make out a silhouette sitting behind a finely crafted desk. Silence followed while he surveyed the room, noticing a thick, but neat, stack of folders on the desk. Miscellaneous trinkets lined the room before the loud bang on the door being closed prompted a slight jump from McCree. A lit fireplace on the far-right side of the room helped illuminate the room a bit, more importantly the quiet man across from him. The soft light from the fire helped illustrate the foreign face, the distinguished facial features pinging a memory from his mind. 

He couldn’t forget that intense face. A few uneasy seconds of silence passed until the figure shifted into a more comfortable position, causing the Golden reflects on his embellished suit to shine even brighter, accenting the mans solemn eyes. 

“McCree. I’ve read a lot about you." He wrangled a piece of paper from a folder, concentrating on its contents. “Unloved orphan who was recruited into a deadbeat gang at 13 and rose through their ranks with the use of expert marksmanship.” His expression looked unimpressed as he proceeded. “You American pigs come into my territory and attract enough attention to get an entire bar slaughtered. You couldn’t lay low your first night. Too interested in drinking and whores.”

Not only did he just lose his unit but add being shot to the mix and thrown around by careless meatheads, he wasn’t in the mood to be bossed around by some flagrant brother-killer A failed one, anyway. Even worse.

“Who the hell do you think you ar--” Irritation bled into McCree’s voice as he spoke, gaining a defensive tone.

“Silence.” The Shimada’s voice boomed throughout the room, rising to his feet after flinging the piece of paper on his desk. He swiftly walked to McCree, ceasing with a few inches between them. 

A stare. Judging. Figuring out what other crude shit to say. Right on cue, he spoke, his demeanor bitter and hostile. He almost looked offended by McCree's presence.

“You’re weak.” 

Before McCree had the chance to retaliate, a blur of the Shimada’s arm shot towards him, a sharp sting following directly after. It spread across his abdomen, exaggerating the now profound pain of the bullet wound. His eyes widened in pain while he struggled to stand on two legs. Hanzo scuffed, using his foot to push McCree’s leg off-balance. He ultimately fell to his knees, straining his wrists against the cuffs from the agony and anger circulating through his veins. 

Hanzo stepped back and began walking in a circle around McCree like a vulture. His shoes tapped loudly against the tiled floor. McCree was hunched over from the pain which embarrassingly gave Hanzo a nearly clear view of his ass as he continued walking around the damaged man. McCree tilted his head behind him, noticing Hanzo peering down at the display. McCree's cheeks flushed and he moved his cuffed hands to attempt to cover himself. His shoe reached out to tap the metal handcuffs. “These suit you rather well.” A gentle chuckle was heard from Hanzo as he resumed pacing. McCree grumbled under his breath. A quiet "Sick bastard." escaped the disgruntled mans lips, careful to avoid any more violence being taken out on him. He just wanted to rest. Go back home. Not that he had a fucking home to begin with. 

He made a full loop and stopped where he began, taking in the assortment of sights he collected from McCree. He was contemplating something. McCree peered up at the mans face, trying to get a hold on what he was thinking. Hanzo's expression was softer than usual. Hopefully on account of deciding to spare McCree's life. 

After a moment of thought his face straightened back out again into the stone-cold ass everyone is accustomed to. He squatted down in front of him, similar to their first encounter. Someone always had to look down on McCree, literally or figuratively. He was, just as the first time, on the floor bleeding and in pain, which is a not-so-new a pattern for him. Hanzo extended a hand towards his shoulder, pushing the man up to put them at eye level. Hanzo brushed away stray hairs clinging to Jesse’s sweat-soaked face, gaining a mildly surprised expression from the cowboy. The first gentle touch he's received from Hanzo. The first gentle one in a while, actually. It temporarily soothed the burning pain of his wound and replaced it with.. _something._

Hanzo rolled his eyes. “Don’t be flattered. You’re the last thing I wish to touch.” His hand ghosted down McCree’s face to his chin, firmly gripping the clean-shaved skin while ever-so-gently pulling the cowboys face closer to his. A cocky smirk appeared on McCree’s face as he took in the sight. 

The smirk trailed away as poisonous thoughts rushed through him. He hated everything the Shimada’s stood for. In a way they eerily resembled Deadlock, a grimy group based on building an empire off of selling illicit weapons and military hardware to any group with the highest bidder. At this point, he almost hated Hanzo too. Almost. Not many people got away with insulting McCree like that. Unfortunately, the longer he stared at the mans face, the quicker the anger dissipated. He was hypnotic in a way either from the drugs or something else entirely. He was used to being treated like this. Nothing new. Just a small perk that the person doin' the harm was a handsome fella, unlike the mouthbreathing cock-nozzle he dealt with in Deadlock. 

A sly grin captivated Hanzo's face. “I have a proposition for you, mongrel.”


End file.
